


Sick Days

by Arnie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Arnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All John had wanted when he came in was a cup of tea and some food.  What he'd got was Sherlock, who apparently turned into an argumentative five year old when he had a fever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Days

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Makani who reminded me that we use celsius for temperatures now instead of fahrenheit, so I've edited the story to reflect that. Thirty-nine celsius is approximately one hundred and three fahrenheit for anyone (like me!) who has to consult an online converter. :o)

John sighed as he slowly made his way up the stairs. All he wanted was to get home, make himself a cup of tea and have his dinner. If there was anything untoward in the fridge (like the brain in a plastic bowl that had, that morning, been sitting next to a rapidly-browning cauliflower), he'd order takeaway. If not, he was sure there were some leftovers of the spaghetti Bolognese he'd made - unless Sherlock had done something weird with them too.

He pushed open the door and peered in, almost afraid to look. Sherlock was by the fireplace, gazing raptly at some display he'd made, and the sitting room looked relatively normal. A quick glance told him that the kitchen looked okay too, which meant Sherlock had been too distracted with whatever he was doing to create a biohazard in the kitchen. Maybe John's day had improved.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Case from Lestrade?" John enquired, rather curious, as he slipped his jacket off. He hadn't received any text messages demanding John leave his paying job in order to follow Sherlock around on a case, so he was wondering what had kept Sherlock busy.

"Mmm, a cold case."

"Okay." John shivered slightly and closed the windows. Why Sherlock had had them open was beyond him. "It's a bit cold in here. I'll light the fire, shall I?"

"What? No, it's too warm." Sherlock barely spared him a glance, but John caught sight of his face in the mirror; it was as pale as normal, apart from a bright flush across the cheekbones.

Oh no. John moved to one side so he could see Sherlock properly. Yep, he was definitely looking flushed. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes." Sherlock's tone was distracted as he leaned in to stare closely at what looked like a postcard.

"And you're not cold."

He got another glance at that, an annoyed one. "No, I told you I wasn't."

John nodded. "Okay. I'll just put the kettle on." He backed off to the kitchen, turned the kettle on, then detoured to the bathroom to fetch the thermometer. "Sherlock?" He waited until he got a distracted, "Mmm?" in reply, then added, "Let me put this in your ear."

After a few seconds, that seemed to sink in and he got a, "What?" as Sherlock looked from him to the thermometer.

"This." John held it up. "In your ear."

"It's a thermometer," Sherlock told him.

"Very good. I'm glad you're paying attention." Despite the wide-eyed look Sherlock was giving him, John stuck it in his ear.

"Why are you taking my temperature?"

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock; it's what we do." John waited until it beeped, then took it out, pursing his lips as he looked at the display. "You've got a temperature of almost thirty-nine degrees."

Sherlock waved him off, impatiently, as he turned his attention back to his display. "That's immaterial."

"No, it's not. There's a twenty-four hour virus going round and it starts with a high temperature."

"And since most, if not all, of the patients you saw have it, you're more likely to get it than I am." Sherlock was back to sounding distracted as he unpinned a handwritten letter and pinned it into place by the postcard.

"Regardless of that, you're the one with a high temperature."

Not quite to John's surprise, Sherlock turned on him. "Maybe my high temperature is due to frustration from being interrupted so much."

"And now you're swaying."

Sherlock gave him one of those narrow-eyed, 'how-do-you-function-with-no-brain?' looks as he drew himself up to his full height and swayed a bit more. "No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are." John took hold of his arm. "Let's get you to bed."

The narrow-eyed look disappeared as Sherlock pulled himself free. "John, I'm flattered but, as I told you, I'm married to my work."

"No, Sherlock - you need to sleep." John grabbed his arm again and pulled him towards his bedroom door.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock continued to argue. "Is that a kink? Does Sarah know?"

"What?" John threw him a glance, then decided he did _not_ want to know. "No! You need to sleep so you'll feel better!"

"You seem rather confident about your sexual prowess."

John stopped, staring at him. "Sherlock, I do not want to sleep with you!"

"Then why are you trying to get me into bed?!" Sherlock demanded, a tone of triumph in his voice.

"Because you're ill!" John snapped. All he'd wanted when he came in was a cup of tea and some food. What he'd got was Sherlock, who apparently turned into an argumentative five year old when he had a fever.

"Shouting at me won't get me into bed with you. Do you think that's why your girlfriends keep leaving?"

Taking a deep breath, John resisted the urge to hit Sherlock and instead resorted to pushing him into his bedroom. "Get undressed, get into bed; I'll be back in a minute." John shook his head as he went to the bathroom. Only Sherlock could turn an attempt to help him into an all-out, verbal assault upon John's love life. He got a bowl, filled it with cold water and grabbed a flannel. Maybe Sherlock would start making more sense once his temperature dropped.

Of course, to help with that, John needed to get into the bedroom. "Sherlock, why have you locked the door?"

"It's safer that way."

"You have a temperature, Sherlock; you can't lock yourself in your bedroom." John made sure to emphasise the word 'temperature' but he was positive it wouldn't make any difference.

He was right. "You've been talking to Mycroft!"

"What?" Where had that come from?

"He always says things like that," Sherlock informed him, disdain dripping from his voice. "'Sherlock, you have a temperature of thirty-nine degrees; go to bed'. 'Kindly stop throwing things at me and take your medicine'. 'Knotting one's sheets together in order to effect an escape through the window is unnecessary when one is in a ground-floor library'. He's so _sensible_ \- it makes me sick!"

As Sherlock continued to rant on about Mycroft (who had apparently been aided and abetted by their mother and nanny since Sherlock was five), John pulled out his phone and rang Greg. "Do you know anyone who can pick locks?" he asked, as soon as Greg answered.

"What? John, is that you?"

"Yep. I need someone who can pick locks," John said, hoping Greg could help out.

"Sherlock can - can't you ask him?"

"No, he's the one who's locked the door." As Sherlock started shouting, demanding that John get off the phone from Mycroft, John put the bowl and flannel down and stuck his finger in his other ear. "He's got a high temperature and he's locked himself in his bedroom."

He got a snort of laughter from Greg, then he replied, "I'd phone his brother, if I were you. When Sherlock was going through detox, he was the only one who could rein him in."

"I'd rather not, if I could avoid it. He's bad enough now and I'm only on the phone to you."

"Your choice, mate, but I bet Mycroft can pick locks."

John suspected that was true, and surely Mycroft owed him at least one favour for not _trying_ to have Mycroft charged with kidnapping? "Okay. I'll phone you later and let you know how it goes." He disconnected the call and rang Mycroft instead.

"Say no more, John; I am well aware of my brother's propensity for drama even without a high temperature. I'll be there in a few moments."

He was as good as his word, and, not entirely to John's surprise, came equipped with lock picking tools. The door swung open and Mycroft strolled in, looking far more at his ease than John felt. John followed on his heels, though he knew the sight of Mycroft wasn't likely to calm Sherlock down.

"Really, brother, do you have to make such a mess of your room?"

It seemed that Sherlock's rantings about Mycroft had given him ideas and he was in the middle of tying his sheets together.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded, his face more flushed than ever as he darted a look filled with accusation at John.

"Stopping you from climbing out of your window. Aren't you too old for that?" Mycroft sounded distinctly disapproving. "John, if you wouldn't mind straightening Sherlock's covers."

He stepped to one side as John tugged the sheets out of Sherlock's hands and began unknotting them. John had just finished and was trying to fix the bed, when a shouted, "No!" from Sherlock got his attention. He looked up to find Mycroft had got a bottle of Benadryl cough mixture and a large spoon out of his briefcase.

"You know you'll feel better," Mycroft said, reprovingly.

"I'm not taking it!"

John kept his eyes on the bed as he got it sorted, then glanced up again as Mycroft advanced on Sherlock with a spoonful of mixture. Sherlock's chin rose and his mouth set firmly. John was expecting to see the onset of World War III, but all Mycroft said was, "I'll call Nanny."

"She's eighty!" Sherlock retorted. "And she'll be busy with her flower show!"

"Oh, I think she'd come if she knew you were sick and not taking your medicine."

Sherlock's eyes widened, and John thought he'd never seen him look so alarmed. "It'd take her hours to get here!"

"Not if I send a helicopter for her," Mycroft returned. "She does enjoy her trips by helicopter," he told John, a pleased look on his face, before looking back at Sherlock.

For a long moment, the stand off continued, reminding John of nothing so much as two cats - both in expensive suits and one armed with a spoon. To John's utter amazement, Sherlock caved, opening his mouth and accepting the spoonful of medication.

"Now get into bed and stop making a fuss."

As Sherlock thudded down onto the mattress and kicked off his shoes, John muttered to Mycroft, "Do you think this nanny could give me pointers?"

"I'm sure she'd be delighted. She thinks very highly of you." Mycroft looked pleased again, then his smile disappeared. "Do stop sulking, Sherlock." He handed the bottle and spoon to John, adding, "That will bring his temperature down. If he needs it, give him another spoonful when he wakes up."

He moved to his briefcase and began to lock it, then stopped when Sherlock demanded, "Well?" His eyes were at half-mast but he still managed an indignant glare.

"I didn't assume you'd be interested."

The indignant glare deepened.

"Very well," Mycroft replied, with the resigned look of a man who's aware his brother is barking mad.

As John gazed at them, puzzled, Mycroft produced a book from his briefcase and sat on the edge of the bed.

"You have to do the voices too!" Sherlock told him.

"Of course." He opened the book, which John could now see was 'Treasure Island', and began to read.

If John's hands hadn't been full of a bottle and spoon, he would have clamped them both over his mouth. As it was, he pressed his lips together and backed away to the door, forcing out a, "I'll just go wash this," when Mycroft looked at him. Once in the kitchen, he dropped the spoon in the sink, put the bottle down, and texted Greg. "The British Government is sitting on Sherlock's bed reading him Treasure Island and he's doing the voices too!"

Within seconds, he had a reply: "On my way."

Greg turned up in less than four minutes, leading John to suspect he'd commandeered a police car to get there, and he crept up the stairs to John's side. John gave him a grin and carried on filming Mycroft through the crack in the door. He could hear Greg stifling his laughter as he raised his phone to do the same, holding it over John's head to get a good view. They got a few minutes of footage, then Mycroft closed the book and put it away in his briefcase.

John shoved his phone into his pocket and Greg dived into the bathroom, out of sight, then John heard, "Sleep well, brother," and Mycroft came out of the bedroom.

"He's asleep then?" John asked, doing his best to look innocent.

Mycroft handed him the briefcase. "Yes," he replied, smiling as he lifted John's phone from his pocket and pressed a few buttons. "Thank you."

John accepted it back, ruefully. Well, at least there was -

"Excuse me." Instead of taking his briefcase back, Mycroft took a few quick steps and disappeared into the bathroom. There was a yelp from Greg, a quiet, "Detective Inspector," then Mycroft reappeared and took his briefcase from John's slack hand. "Good evening, John."

As he went off down the stairs, Greg peered around the door. "Did he get yours too?"

~~~

To John's surprise, the Benadryl worked wonders in bringing Sherlock's temperature back down to somewhere near normal, and within five hours he was up and texting Greg his deductions about that cold case.

"Why isn't he answering?" Sherlock demanded, practically shaking his phone with impatience. "Do I have to _call_ him?!"

John stifled a yawn. "He's probably in bed and asleep by now. No, Sherlock!" he added as Sherlock began pressing buttons. "Tell him tomorrow."

"Fine!" Sherlock slumped down into his seat and glared at John. "Where are you going?"

"Bed! It's almost midnight." And John had another day at the surgery tomorrow. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't palm all his patients off with a prescription for Benadryl.

"But I want tea! And toast." As John opened his mouth to protest, he continued, "I'm ill! I had Benadryl! From _Mycroft!"_ The last was said in tones of doom, as though that made it a thousand times worse.

John gave in without much of a struggle. After all, he had been after Sherlock to eat more for months, so making toast at midnight was a small price to pay. "Fine - but then I'm off to bed."

"Yes, yes, fine." As John headed into the kitchen, Sherlock added, "We don't want you getting sick."

Glancing back, John caught the narrow-eyed look Sherlock was giving him and mentally crossed his fingers he'd stay healthy. God only knew what Sherlock would do in revenge.

~~~

The crossed fingers didn't work in warding off the dreaded lurgy, and by the time John got home the following night, his head was aching and the stairs were swaying. He staggered up them, dropped his jacket in the direction of the coat hook and headed towards his bedroom with a determination that rivalled Scott of the Antarctic.

"John?"

John didn't stop. Whatever horrors Sherlock planned on inflicting on him would have to wait until John was conscious again. At least, so John hoped. As he fought his way up the stairs to his room, he felt Sherlock's hand on his back giving him support.

"It's alright, John; I know exactly what to do."

Did he? John wondered, fuzzily. Good. He was glad one of them did.

With Sherlock's help it didn't take him long to discard the majority of his clothing and, once he was down to his underwear and t-shirt, John collapsed into bed with a grateful sigh. His pillow felt wonderfully cool against his hot face, and he sighed again as he let his eyelids slide closed.

He was just on the verge of sleep when Sherlock returned. Or so he thought. He forced his eyes open, then opened them wider at the sight of Mycroft Holmes. "I'm hallucinating."

Mycroft smiled. "Unfortunately not. Sherlock texted me." He put his briefcase down on John's bedside cabinet and turned to accept a familiar-looking bottle of Benadryl and a spoon from Sherlock.

John groaned. "You've got to be kidding me."

Sherlock grinned, looking positively gleeful. "Don't make him call Nanny."

John's gaze slid back to Mycroft, who was waiting, patiently, with a spoonful of cough mixture. As John stared at him, Mycroft tilted his head and gave him one of those looks. John's indignant urge to stand his ground fled under the pounding of his head, and he opened his mouth. Maybe if he co-operated, they'd leave him to die in peace.

No such luck. The spoon was handed back to Sherlock, who gave it a disgusted look and dropped it on top of John's clothes, and Mycroft settled down on the edge of John's bed, a book in his hand.

"You have to do the voices too!"

"I'm well aware of that, thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, then he smiled at John. "I'll begin, shall I?"

John pulled the covers over his head as Mycroft began to read. Next time he got sick, he vowed silently to himself, he'd go hide out at Greg's.

The end.


End file.
